


the lingering darkness

by esperanzacruz (orphan_account)



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Cheating, Dark, F/M, Infidelity, Masturbation, inspired by forgive us our tresspasses, nelly made me do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25081843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/esperanzacruz
Summary: Sara is frustrated and alone sipping scotch in the darkness of the parlour. John's scent lingers on the chair she's sitting in.
Relationships: John Constantine/Sara Lance
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	the lingering darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nellywrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellywrites/gifts).
  * Inspired by [forgive us our trespasses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16302764) by [nellywrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellywrites/pseuds/nellywrites). 



Sara sinks down into the chair John vacated. The leather is still warm from his body and the smell of his cigarettes wafts through the air. She wrinkles her nose in disgust, but the scent loosens something inside of her, an embarrassing lingering desire. 

A byproduct of the first and only taste she had of him. 

John Constantine is a harbinger of chaos, of everything she’s been missing in her life since settling down. She doesn’t regret her choices or her life with Ava, but she does miss the thrill of flirting with danger. 

She remembers what it was like to be with John. How he’d fed her demons and she’d fed his.

Now she was starving. 

Sara raises her scotch to her lips, taking a long pull of the amber liquid. She rolls it over her tongue, imagining that’s what John did when he was sitting here alone. Letting the bite and the burn of it linger in his mouth, reveling in the pain of a familiar vice. 

Ava feeds the goodness in her. The pieces of her that are light, untouched by the shadows that still linger in her past. Sara wants the light in her to grow, she’s cultivated it, cherished it, but the fact is the shadows that cling to her and linger are just as much a part of her as the light that chases them away. 

The dark things in her need to be loved just as much as the light ones. 

Sara drains the rest of the scotch in her glass and sets it down on the floor at her feet. She’s starting to feel a little lighter, her head fizzing and popping from consuming liquor so fast. It’s pleasant and familiar and, as she settles back further into the chair, she wonders if it’s what John felt too. 

She could imagine him here. Feeling this exact thing, just on the edge of _enough_. He’d grab his cigarettes, put one in his mouth and light it with that infuriating Zippo lighter he always fiddled with. He’d inhale, his lips wrapped so perfectly around the filter, his long fingers spread open in an intoxicating ‘v’, holding the cigarette in his mouth. 

Sara shivers, running her fingers along the arms of the chair. She can feel bits of John lingering there; the retreating warmth of his arms, the residue of his sweat. It’s like he’s still in the room with her, watching her experience him second-hand.

Desire coils low in her belly and she takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

In the same way John has his cigarettes, Sara has her own dangerous vices. Ones she hasn’t entertained in a long, _long_ time. 

Here she is now. Alone in the darkness of her ship, the scent of John’s sweat and cigarettes filling her nose. No one would know. 

If she were to entertain this, entertain thoughts of him alone in this parlour, no one would know. It’s not cheating if they never touch. 

Sara sinks a little lower in the chair, her eyes drifting closed. She spreads her legs, taking a shaky breath when she feels the rush of heat pool between her thighs. 

She runs her hands along the arm rests of the chair again, taking her time to soak up every last bit of warmth John left behind. Sara turns her face, pressing her cheek against the back of the chair and breathing in the scent of smoke and sweat. 

Sara scrapes her fingernails over her thighs, toying with the hem of her sleep shorts. She’s taking her time with this, letting the fantasy play out slowly in her head. 

The thought of John still there, lingering in the darkness, leaning against the wall and watching her. He would’ve poured himself another drink by now, the glass glittering in the minimal light as he sips it slowly. 

Maybe he’d smoke again, the embers of his cigarette burning bright red while he takes long drags of it. His lips curling around the smoke while he exhales. 

He would seem so unbothered by her writhing there in the scent of him, one of her hands worming its way beneath her sleep shorts to touch her aching cunt through her underwear. John might even be amused by her coming undone by so little. 

She remembers he laughed a lot, breathless and unhindered when he touched her in the laundry room. Maybe he would laugh now if he could see her there, pressing against that wet spot in her underwear, breath hitching, eyes closed tight. 

Sara drags her hand along her cunt, finally slipping it into her panties and spreading herself open. She’s already so wet, slick from the memory of John fucking her in an unfamiliar place. The last time she’d been able to really feed the part of herself that needs that special brand of chaos. 

John was right when he said her problems weren’t all about sex. It went so much deeper than getting laid, it went all the way down to her bones. 

At her core, Sara is like him. Someone who thrives in the shadows and feasts on the anarchy of living. Who is she to deny herself that? 

She traces her other hand beneath her tank top to squeeze one of her breasts. She rolls her index finger over her nipple, rubbing it until it’s so painfully hard she’s panting and bucking her hips up into her hand. 

Sara wonders if John would touch himself too or if he’d be content to watch her come apart. The thought of him gripping himself in his hand while she touches herself makes her shiver with need. 

She’s so close already and she’s barely touched herself at all. All the danger and chaos and _desire_ of doing this out in the open with the ghost of John lingering in the room with her has her dancing on the edge of release. 

Guilt creeps in when she swirls her fingers around her clit. Her stomach sinking when she wonders when the last time she got this wet for Ava was. When was the last time she even touched herself thinking about her girlfriend?

Ava’s face swims to the surface of her thoughts and Sara’s hand falters, falling away from her clit to rest in the crease of her thigh. Her heart pounds and her eyes fly open, a wave of frustration rolling over her at the sudden cessation.

This was wrong. She knew it was wrong. Ava was the possessive jealous type. If she knew what Sara was doing, sitting here in the darkness of The Waverider, she would be hurt. 

Maybe that’s why she was doing this in the first place. 

The danger of someone knowing. Seeing it written on her face when she finally claims her release that her thoughts had been possessed by John Constantine. 

_‘Do you want to cum for me, luv?’_ He’d asked her in 1969. He had two fingers buried deep inside of her, curling just right while he thumbed at her clit. She’d been so close, her body arched and pulled taut like a bow string. 

Sara moves her hand from the crease of her thigh, easing two of her fingers inside of her, thumb pressed to her clit. Her thoughts conjure John again, pulling her deep into the shadows where she keeps him buried. 

She no longer thinks of him as across the room watching her. No, she remembers what it was like to have him. His cock buried deep inside of her, his teeth raking over her throat. 

_‘Cum again_ ,’ he’d urged her, his breath hot against her ear. ‘ _Cum for me again_.’

Sara gasps and moans, her body shivering and trembling when she comes. She clenches around her fingers, her thumb halting against her clit as her hips buck up and grind into her hand, working her through her orgasm. 

Her ears ring, her head spinning and full of disjointed thoughts. 

“I’m sorry,” she gasps in the darkness to no one, easing her hand from her underwear and wiping it on her shirt. “I’m sorry.”

The thing is. She doesn’t really feel sorry at all. 


End file.
